Blood Brothers
by michael t
Summary: Episode 12 of The Trick Chronicles, in which the Watchers Council decides it is time to deal with Giles and he must accept help from some unknown allies.
1. chapter 1

Suggested listening:  
  
"So Tonight That I Might See" by Mazzy Star  
"Bolt Action" by Vigilantes of Love  
"Stand Guard" by Bob Mould  
  
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Forget Quentin Travers and everything BtVS has shown about the Watchers Council. This is my own interpretation of the organization. Also, the Mayor in "The Trick Chronicles" is not based directly on Mayor Wilkins as he was portrayed in S3. I don't believe my depiction of him is as different as my take on the WC, but just so everyone knows, it's not necessarily the same guy. I wouldn't want actions that might appear out of character to cause confusion.  
  
  
Blood Brothers  
By  
Michael Walker  
  
It was a dark and stormy night. While that phrase has been the genesis of countless bad short stories and tortured novels, the night in question was, in fact, both dark and stormy. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, driven by a sharp wind that pushed rain squalls ahead of it. The clouds were edged with white, courtesy of the full moon they obscured. It was a cinematographer's singular rendering of a stormy night.  
  
The stone manor house had seen countless nights just like it. This close to Scotland, still in England, it was one of countless old piles that might have had great claim to history if anyone famous had ever slept, screwed, or died there. No one had and so it was simply an old, well-maintained house located far off the beaten path.  
  
Tonight, however, the path looked beaten to within an inch of its life. A collection of vehicles startling in their diversity lined the drive. The windows of the old manse glowed a warm yellow, a distinctly old color, not the bright white of modern lighting. The wind blustered and whistled, adding its voice to the cacophony to be found inside.  
  
And cacophonous it was, in a strangely civil way. The great hall of the house was crammed with an astonishing array of people. They were predominantly male, and a goodly portion of them white. More than a few looked as though they might be dead also, but there were women present, and many men whose skin color indicated that this could possibly be their first trip to England or, for a few, to the northern hemisphere. They had arrived three days ago in response to an urgent summons.  
  
One of them held forth at the podium stationed at the foot of the great staircase. He was not old nor was he dead, but he was most assuredly white, possessing the pallor common to scholars and zealots. His hair was a disheveled mess. A pair of small rectangular spectacles perched at the end of a long, thin nose. His chin could be used to open the mail. His clothing matched, at least in the sense that all very dark colors tend to look at least presentable when worn together. He jabbed at his glasses with a forefinger and continued his jeremiad.  
  
"I know that certain factions within this august body believe the present situation to be of only passing interest. They counsel caution and make passing reference to past events, which they imagine to be similar to this present calamity. I say, with utmost sincerity and no rancor at all--" there was a general stirring as a large portion of the audience stifled laughter-"no rancor at all in my heart, that they are wrong. We must not be lulled into complacent slumber, for if this happens we will most certainly awaken too late.  
  
"Our ancient and hallowed traditions have been subsumed by modernity, not because our brother is evil, but because he is lax. It is easier to acquiesce than to stand firm. This must be stopped."  
  
He stopped to take a breath and a member of the audience stood. At least it seemed that he stood for his diminutive stature changed very little. What he lacked in height he possessed in girth and his features clustered in the center of a round face. "That's all well and good, Kirkland, but don't we have a baby and bathwater situation here?"  
  
Kirkland nodded the nod of a debater who has spent his entire allotment of time laying one rhetorical trap in the hopes of snaring his opponent and who has just now seen his adversary step into the carefully prepared snare. "That is a common reaction and on its surface it is most reasonable and temperate. All of us want to see error corrected yet none of us wants to overreact. That is understandable. This leads inexorably to a belief that it is better to wait to long than to act too soon, to strike too softly rather than too strongly, and to assume that over the course of time all will be brought into equilibrium." Kirkland fixed his crowd with a fevered gaze. "Yet who among us, if he encountered a viper in the garden, would concern himself--" Kirkland faltered slightly "-himself or herself with how hard the hoe was swung that lopped off the head of the poisonous reptile?"  
  
"Sir, sir." David Mangwana rose to his feet. "Surely you are not comparing our brother to a poisonous snake?"  
  
"Not at all." Kirkland bowed his head. "I am aware that he is on the front lines in a way that I cannot imagine. I also know that a soldier in the heat of battle may lose sight of the larger objective, which is why the general staff exists. I understand full well the seriousness of this debate and that is why I stand here before you with heavy heart." A rustle from the crowd indicated that at least some of them thought that his heart was about as heavy as butterfly droppings.  
  
The fat man spoke again. "What exactly do you propose?"  
  
Kirkland placed one hand on the podium and the other in his pocket. "I propose measures of necessity." A rumbling murmur passed through the assembly. Voices were raised, some in protest, more in assent. Kirkland stepped away from the podium. An old man took his place, his thin gray hair combed straight back. The old man rapped on the podium with an oaken gavel until quiet, or a reasonable facsimile of it, again ruled.  
  
"Is there any more debate?" he said in a voice whose clarity and vigor clashed with his appearance. Kirkland appeared to be looking down at his feet, but in reality he was scanning the crowd. This was the knife edge, the fatal moment.  
  
One man rose to his feet. His black eyes reflected the light in glittering pinpoints. A thick shock of unruly black hair fell over his forehead. Dread and doom seemed to radiate from him. "Brothers... and sisters," he said in his heavy Romanian accent. "Since the dawn of time, our brotherhood has held to a sacred trust. There is only one, but what good is one without training, without counsel, without wisdom? What we decide tonight is not only about us, but about the Slayer as well. Are we truly, truly upholding our oath to her if we do not continue in the paths of our fathers?" He cast one piercing glare around the room and sat down. Kirkland almost smiled, but he caught himself and in concealing that smile of triumph, he won. He had wheedled and cajoled, counted and re-counted every vote, twisted arms and scratched backs. Rupert Giles might believe himself above the law, but the Watchers Council was about to demonstrate the untruth of his delusion.  
  
***  
  
The exhausted Watchers stumbled out of the great hall and scattered, some to sleep, some to settle the night's events with a single-malt scotch or three, and some to simply try and come to grips with what they had done. Five of them drifted into the study, circumspectly arriving at irregular intervals.  
  
"No harm in it, I suppose," St. John Merriweather said. He swirled his glass and stared at the amber liquid in it. His long fingers caressed the crystal. "Damn Kirkland has spies everywhere."  
  
"Yes. For instance, one of us might be his accomplice." Gunther Koenig's joke fell flat. He belied the stereotype of the jolly fat man; in fact, Gunther had one of the worst senses of humor on the planet.  
  
Merriweather sipped his drink. "Hate to see it happen to Giles. Boy was always a bit of a comer if you ask me. Bright as a new penny once he put his shoulder to the wheel." He took another sip. When he was a young man he would have slammed the first drink, made his pronouncement, and refilled the tumbler for another toss. Now he was an old man, or at least on old age's doorstep, and his pleasures had to be rationed. "Must say I hate to see him take it at the hands of a prick like Kirkland."  
  
"Could you believe that 'he is on the front lines in a way that I cannot imagine'? What a load of fertilizer." Sofia Pellecanos' dark eyes threw off sparks that Merriweather feared might ignite his drink.  
  
"Fertilizer? Dear Sofia, euphemism is not your specialty." Koenig giggled.  
  
"I believe that our Greek fury fears that if she looses her tongue she may not be able to rein it in again." Merriweather's smile was distant and self-satisfied.  
  
Sofia snorted derisively. "You know as well as I that Kirkland's jealousy is at the root of all of this. As if he could handle a Slayer, that gangling jelly of a man."  
  
"The cause is not important. What matters is that tonight we have voted for measures of necessity." Robert Woo's comment sobered all of them.  
  
"Well, not to be insensitive, but the young lady who was killed, she was one of yours, wasn't she?" Merriweather craned his neck upward to look at Woo, who leaned against the bar.  
  
"Lindsay Maeda was an American," Woo replied. "She was of Japanese ancestry. I am from Hong Kong. I am Chinese."  
  
"Sorry, don't get your knickers in a twist." Merriweather settled back in his chair. "Still, what d'you make of it?"  
  
Woo shrugged. "Watchers die all the time. I could find no indication that Rupert Giles could have prevented her death."  
  
"What about allowing his Slayer to be marked?" Koenig raised an admonishing finger.  
  
"Oh please." Merriweather sounded grumpy. "I'm older than all of you, maybe older than any two of you put together outside the Chinaman, and I wouldn't have seen that coming. It was an old wives' tale, everybody knew that. Can't hold a man accountable for something we'd do ourselves."  
  
"It is unjust," Sofia said. "It is shameful."  
  
"It may be all of those things," Koenig said. "But it is the lawful decision of a majority of the Inner Council." The others nodded and made sorrowful noises.  
  
"So the Inner Council is infallible?" The four of them looked at David Mangwana. He had remained silent during their exchange but now he stepped forward. Like most of the Watchers he wore a dark suit, but over his was draped a garment somewhere between a shawl and a scarf, covered in a chevron design of orange, green, and black. "Remind me how we came to this resolution."  
  
Merriweather began. "Many years ago, before the dawn of recorded time, the first Watcher--"  
  
"Sinjin." Sofia's voice had more layers than a good baklava. Most of them were threatening. Merriweather harrumphed and slouched back in his chair.  
  
Koenig shrugged, his eyes wide in his chubby face. "There were complaints regarding Mr. Giles' relationship with the Slayer and the events of the past year."  
  
"Complaints from whom?" Mangwana's bitter-chocolate skin stretched tight over the commanding bones of his face. His hooded eyes suggested that he was leading them through their paces.  
  
"Humboldt Eubanks." If words could have a bad taste, Merriweather had certainly said something bitter to judge from his expression.  
  
"That odious little toady," snapped Sofia.  
  
"Ah, dear Sofia, neither alliteration or rhyme yet containing elements of both." Merriweather's voice was as dry as his favorite sherry.  
  
"And what was the result of these complaints?" Mangwana would not be swayed.  
  
Robert Woo shook his head. "A call for the appointment of a new Grand Inquisitor. We were all here at the meeting, what, three months ago?"  
  
"Not quite." Koenig was a stickler for accuracy.  
  
"Look, we all know Eubanks carries Kirkland's water." Woo held out a hand, palm up. "What are you saying, David? That Kirkland orchestrated all of this so he would be chosen as the new GI?"  
  
David Mangwana thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He looked in all directions, letting his eyes roam without moving his head. Satisfied, he spoke, his voice pitched low. "More than that. I say that Kirkland manipulated the selection ritual. Lindsay Maeda was not supposed to be the chosen Watcher."  
  
"Well," Merriweather said as he stared deep into his glass, "I'd say we've crossed some sort of Rubicon here."  
  
"David, we all think that Kirkland is a jealous little wretch, but what you're suggesting..." Woo's voice trailed away.  
  
"Why?" Koenig demanded. "Why would he do such a thing? What could he possibly gain from it?"  
  
Sofia looked at him with such pity that the other men felt an urge to turn away in embarrassment. "What could he gain? He--"  
  
The subject of their discussion walked into the room. "Hey ho," Kirkland said, crossing the worn carpet to the bar where the bottles were arranged. He did not pour a drink, but instead leaned on his elbows facing them. He wore some sort of loose flowing garment that Mangwana realized was intended to look like a cross between the robes of a headmaster and those of a wizard in a child's picture book. If the Grand Inquisitor had looked any more self-satisfied his lips would have turned into gumdrops.  
  
"So," he said, "what are the five of you up to?"  
  
Koenig's eyes bugged. Robert Woo turned to Kirkland. "We are discussing our reservations about tonight's vote."  
  
Kirkland shook his head in a convincing portrayal of a man burdened with deep sorrow. "It's truly a grave matter."  
  
"Indeed," said Merriweather. "Been three generations since measures were voted on a Slayer. Never been done to a Watcher. Not before now."  
  
Kirkland's mouth puckered in disapproval. "You heard Manolescu. This is about our sacred traditions, about insuring that the Slayer is receiving proper guidance."  
  
"Then, if I may be so bold," Mangwana said smoothly, "why are these measures so important? After all, Rupert Giles is not technically the Slayer's Watcher now. Buffy Summers is no longer the recognized One. Perhaps a better use of our time might be to select a new Watcher for the present Slayer."  
  
Kirkland shook his head. His stubborn refusal to consider David Mangwana's point was written in every line of his face. "No, not as long as the Slayer is still in California. I'm afraid that Giles would only corrupt a new Watcher as he corrupted Lindsay Maeda and as he has no doubt tainted the Chosen One."  
  
Gunther Koenig sighed. "You are probably right. It just seems like such an unprecedented step." He shook his head and his chins wobbled. "Perhaps that is why I feel so timid."  
  
Kirkland smiled and strode over to Koenig. He clapped the fat man on the shoulder. "Buck up, Gunther. History will vindicate us."  
  
"Perhaps." Robert Woo held up a bottle. "Drink?"  
  
Kirkland made a face. "God, no. Stuff's disgusting." He cleared his throat. "I understand your reservations, but I believe we are in the right. I also know that I can trust you to abide by the vote of the Inner Council, regardless of your personal misgivings."  
  
Koenig inclined his head. "We are sworn Watchers."  
  
Kirkland actually winked. "Well spoken, Gunther. Now, don't stay up too late." He snapped off an ironic salute and stalked out of the room.  
  
Merriweather took a slow sip of his whiskey, then looked at the golden liquid still in his glass. "I suppose," he said, "that's reason enough to hate the man." 


	2. chapter 2

The earth is a sphere that rotates on its axis as it orbits the sun. Some parts of the globe are in darkness while others bask in solar warmth. It was dark and cold as St. John Merriweather decided that Kirkland's distaste for fine spirits was reprehensible, but at the same moment it was a warm winter afternoon in Sunnydale, California. Even by Sunnydale's generous standards it was a balmy day for January, mild enough that Cordelia Chase wore a sleeveless silk top and short red skirt as she watched Xander play basketball. It was nothing serious, just a quick pick-up game, but Cordelia was secretly enjoying herself as she watched Xander run and sweat. He took a pass on the left wing, faked to the middle and drove the baseline. He pulled up from ten feet and launched an ungainly but accurate jump shot that dropped through the worn chain nets with a soft clank. He exchanged high-fives with his teammates as the opposition took the ball out. They swung the ball around the point and tried to reverse it, but Xander stepped into the passing lane and deflected the ball. Lonnie Krueger grabbed it and took off toward the basket. It took him some time to get there. Not that Lonnie was slow, but Cordelia could have gone to the salon, had her nails done, consulted Paul (pronounced 'Pah-oooool) about a new hairstyle, been reassured that her coiffure was absolutely perfect just as it was and still returned in time to see Lonnie miss the lay-up. The ball bounced off the side of the rim and Xander sliced between two flat-footed opponents and tipped it in. "Game point!" shouted Lonnie, who was apparently under the impression that his missed shot had been the secret key to the game-winning sequence. Watching Lonnie perform his victory dance was not Cordelia's idea of time well spent so she concentrated on Xander. Sweat dripped off his nose and chin and formed a dark inverted triangle on the front of his T-shirt. He picked up his other shirt, a short-sleeved green and black rayon number, and jogged over to her.  
  
"Hey," he said, gasping slightly. "Were you impressed?"  
  
"Oh yes," she said with mock gravity. "Watching you dominate the geek-and-loser league takes my breath away."  
  
"I prefer to be a big fish in a little pond. Actually, I prefer to be a big fisherman in a little pond. It's much easier that way."  
  
Cordelia looked over at him as he shrugged into his shirt. "You know, I watch all the basketball games, being a cheerleader and all, and you're as good as some guys on the team. And you did make the swim team last year. Why haven't you ever tried out for any other sports?"  
  
"Hello, let's look at the swimming experience, shall we? I was on the team for about a half-hour, then I found out they were trying to turn me into the cousin of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. All in all, not an episode to make one long for the camaraderie of team sports." They walked a ways, Cordelia with her books in one hand and her purse slung over a shoulder. Xander wiped his forehead on his sleeve. "I guess when you come right down to it, it's always the coaches."  
  
"What?"  
  
"The coaches. I love the games, but there's always a coach screwing it up, either making too big a deal of it or getting in your face. I don't need any more of that."  
  
Cordelia decided it was time to change the subject. "Do we have plans for tonight?"  
  
Xander snapped his fingers and pointed at her. "Yes, we do. Buffy's invited us to hang at her place. Oz and Willow will be there. I believe board games and popcorn are major agenda items."  
  
Cordelia groaned. "This is what I've come to? My dating life consists of hanging out at Buffy's yet again?"  
  
Xander held up a forefinger. "Small point. I don't think you've actually done much hanging out at Buffy's house. Sure, you've been there, but mostly it's been of the 'barricade the doors, evil's a-comin'' type or the 'break out the books, let's find out when evil's a-comin'' type."  
  
Cordelia made a sour face. "You forgot the 'put duct tape around the door or the worm man will get us' type."  
  
Xander shrugged and a small smile played around his lips. "Yeah, but I kinda look back on that fondly."  
  
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "You would."  
  
  
***  
  
Willow placed her last tile on the Scrabble board with an authoritative little snap. "Xylem," she said.  
  
"Wow," Xander said. "I don't believe I've ever seen a word that short be worth so many points." Buffy and Oz just stared in dumfounded awe.  
  
"Is that even a word?" Cordelia demanded. "Because I don't think it is."  
  
"Sure it is," Willow protested. "Xylem, as in xylem and phloem. It's the vascular tissue that carries water from the roots to the branches and leaves of ferns and seed plants."  
  
Cordelia's eyes narrowed. "Nice try, but I'm not buying."  
  
Willow's voice grew quiet. "Are you challenging me?" Buffy, Xander, and Oz turned pale.  
  
"Yeah," Cordelia snapped. "I'm challenging."  
  
Willow reached out and picked up a worn and broken-backed Scrabble dictionary, never taking her eyes from Cordelia. She glanced down as she flipped through it, turned back a couple of pages, ran a finger along a column, then reversed it and handed the book to Cordelia. "What do you see?" she said.  
  
Cordelia read. Her eyes smoldered and her lips pressed into as thin a line as their fullness would allow. She thrust the book back at Willow. "Fine," she said.  
  
"That's game," Willow said. "Want to tally?"  
  
"Hey, I think it's time for a popcorn break," Buffy said, getting to her feet. "What say we partake of the fluffy white kernels?"  
  
"I'm all for it," Xander said. "That salty crunch sounds fine to me. How 'bout you, Cor?"  
  
"Sure." Cordelia got up from the couch. "Popcorn sounds good. I need something to grind my teeth on."  
  
Willow began to pick up the Scrabble board. "I'll find another game."  
  
"Sorry," Xander said to Cordelia as they entered the Summers' kitchen. "I should have told you, no one challenges Will at Scrabble."  
  
"Why not?" Cordelia bristled; even her ponytail twitched in anger.  
  
"Oh, I don't know... maybe because she's a Scrabble deity and if she's angered she can summon her divine word powers and smash all of our boards."  
  
"God, you are such a wuss." Cordelia shouldered past him. "I have to use the bathroom."  
  
"Is our queen a bit touchy about getting bitch-slapped in Scrabble?" Buffy asked in a voice that implied that butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.  
  
"Cordelia doesn't like to lose," Xander said.  
  
"No," Oz said with credible astonishment as he poured a glass of water. Buffy attended the popcorn. Xander fetched bowls from the cabinet. They met Cordelia in the hall. The four of them trooped into the living room.  
  
"Look," Willow exclaimed, her face luminous with delight. "I found Trivial Pursuit." Xander, Oz, and Buffy exchanged microscopic shakes of the head. Cordelia studied them for a moment, glared at Xander, then turned back to Willow.  
  
"I love that game," she said, settling onto the sofa. Xander closed his eyes. Oz sat on the floor beside Willow. As Buffy put the popcorn on the coffee table she whispered in Xander's ear.  
  
"Is she just a glutton for punishment?"  
  
***  
  
"If I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn't believe it." Buffy gulped water, then ran the glass over her forehead.  
  
"Man, where did she learn so much about sports?" Xander's question was directed at the cosmos.  
  
"Well, she has dated most of the good athletes at school," Oz pointed out. "Maybe she gleaned a little from each of them."  
  
"We better get back in there before this gets ugly," Buffy said.  
  
"Too late," Xander said as they filed out of the kitchen. "It's already uglier than Aldo Ray in a teddy."  
  
Willow sat cross-legged in the living room floor, rocking back and forth ever so slightly. Cordelia perched on the edge of the couch, back straight, her fists clenched on her thighs. Both of them stared at the board. Two tokens, their wedge-shaped segments filled with bits of colored plastic, sat on the surface. Willow was one space from the hub, Cordelia's two. Willow rolled the dice. The white cube bounced and spun. A three. Willow hissed and moved her token past the hub. She was on green. Cordelia pulled a card from the box.  
  
"Science and nature," she said. "What line on a map connects all points of the same elevation?"  
  
Willow waved her hand. "A contour line. Roll."  
  
Cordelia picked up the dice. She needed a three. She tossed the dice. Three black dots stared upward. Willow rolled her eyes as Cordelia advanced to the center.  
  
"Okay," Willow said. "I pick the question." She reached into the box. A sly smile spread over her face. "The category is geography. What's the only active volcano on the European mainland?" A self-satisfied grin creased her face.  
  
Cordelia shrugged. "Mount Vesuvius."  
  
Willow's jaw dropped. "What?"  
  
Buffy looked stunned. "She's right?"  
  
"How did you know?" Willow asked.  
  
"Please," Cordelia said. "It's in Italy, land of shoes and fine handbags. Ever heard of Gucci, Versace? Who would know more about Italy than moi?"  
  
"That's French," Oz pointed out.  
  
"So," Cordelia said, "do I win or something?"  
  
***  
  
Cordelia turned the key and the Sebring's engine roared to life. She checked the mirrors, put the car in gear and pulled smoothly away from the curb. She kept silent until they reached the stop sign at the end of the street.  
  
"What is the deal?" she asked.  
  
"What deal?" Xander asked, the soul of innocence.  
  
Cordelia turned right. "For the last half-hour everybody sat around looking like their dog just died. What gives?" He shrugged but Cordelia would not be denied. "Xander," she said in a tone that would not take no for an answer.  
  
He shifted in his seat. "It... You upset the natural order."  
  
She frowned. "What?"  
  
Xander half-turned toward her. "Willow never loses at board games. That's one of her things, part of the Willow persona. She doesn't lose at things requiring facts or memory."  
  
Cordelia shrugged. "Well, she lost tonight."  
  
"And that's the point, don't you see? We all had our niche, our little special place. You're pretty and popular, Buffy's the Slayer, Oz is music guy and Will... Will's Brainiac. You've usurped part of her role."  
  
"First of all, that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard, and after dating you for almost a year, I've heard some stupid things. Plus, I've lost a considerable amount of cachet because I'm dating you, so I think Willow owes me at least one game of Trivial Pursuit."  
  
"But don't you see?" Xander held up his hands, fingers curled as though he grasped oranges. He began to wave his arms back and forth. "You've upset the alignment. Worlds are colliding." He banged his hands together. "Bkshhhhhhhhhh. Who knows what could happen? Cats and dogs living the together, the dead rising to walk among the living... real Old Testament stuff."  
  
She rolled her eyes. "That's a pretty involved theory from someone who I think is wearing bowling shoes. Besides, the dead rise in Sunnydale all the time."  
  
***  
  
Des Kirkland sawed a small section from his breakfast sausage and popped it in his mouth. The Grand Inquisitor ate with a peculiar combination of delicacy and rapaciousness that produced a queasy sense of disgust in any observer. As he chewed there was a knock at the door. He swallowed and said, "Come in." The old oaken door swung open and St. John Merriweather stepped into the chamber. The ramrod-straight old man looked at the walls of massive stone, the old tapestries, the hardwood floor worn smooth by generations of feet.  
  
"Might have asked for rooms with indoor plumbing," he said.  
  
Kirkland smiled, or at least pasted a smile-like expression onto his vulpine face. "Don't worry about me, Lord Merriweather. I'm quite comfortable here." He chewed a small triangle of toast.  
  
"I'm sure you are." Merriweather stuck his hands in the pockets of his navy blazer.  
  
"I suppose we might as well just get to it," Kirkland said. "How was your little conversation last night?"  
  
Merriweather shrugged. "They are all appalled at your request for measures of necessity and shocked that it was approved. I'm sure you're aware of that." Kirkland nodded and made an impatient gesture with a hand. Merriweather stifled a small smile. He was going to enjoy watching the little prick digest the next morsel. "David Mangwana claims that you manipulated the rituals of selection."  
  
Kirkland's eyes bugged ever so slightly. He reached for a glass of water and took a sip. Deciding that this was not strong enough, he rose from the small circular table, went to a cabinet and poured himself a whiskey. He took a healthy drink and closed his eyes as he swallowed. When he opened his eyes they were a little watery. "Everyone's leaving this morning. You might have mentioned this sooner."  
  
Merriweather shrugged. "You didn't ask."  
  
Kirkland glared. "Do you think he has any proof?"  
  
Merriweather thought for a moment. His classic features assumed a stillness as his mind worked. "Mangwana is a cautious, thorough man. He would never mention something of this magnitude unless he had some sort of evidence to confirm it."  
  
"Damn!" Kirkland hurled his glass against the wall. Shards of glass and amber whiskey sprayed across the stones and onto the floor. "This is what comes of expanding the Watchers." A black scowl twisted his face. "That's where the rot began, you know, when we let the Asians in, but it really took off when we included the bloody Africans."  
  
Merriweather refrained from mentioning that most histories pinpointed the first Slayer in Africa. "Kaffirs have their uses. Still, they cause nothing but trouble when you give them responsibility." He shrugged. "Still, my father always believed the Council's first error was admitting Americans."  
  
"Probably." Kirkland passed a hand across his forehead as though wiping the dark thoughts from his brow. "Well, I suppose this must be dealt with." He looked at Merriweather. "You've been of great service, Lord Merriweather, even if you weren't exactly johnny-on-the-spot with this intelligence."  
  
Merriweather offered a slight bow, a sardonic smile on his noble profile. "Thank you. I believe I'll show myself out." He left the chamber.  
  
***  
  
David Mangwana hefted the silver aluminum briefcase as he walked across the parking lot. The day was slightly overcast but stray shafts of sunlight poked through the clouds. Mangwana had exchanged his somber suit of the night before for dark trousers, chunky Mephisto walking shoes and a baggy sweater with brilliant flecks of color. He checked his bags at the ticket counter but kept the briefcase with him. He took his boarding pass and started for the security checkpoint.  
  
"I say David, care for a drink at the club?" Mangwana turned. St. John Merriweather stood a few feet away. The old man wore a navy blazer and gray pants, polished black cap-toe oxfords and a blue-and-red striped regimental tie. As usual, he looked as though he was posing for a statue to be erected on the commons of some posh public school.  
  
"I have a plane to catch," Mangwana said.  
  
"You have time," Merriweather said, taking the younger man by the arm. "Only take a minute. Besides, I don't think you'll be getting on your flight." He steered David toward a black-painted door. A plaque on the wall beside it read Take-Off Club. "Dreadful name," Merriweather said as they entered.  
  
They settled into a leather-padded booth. A waiter took their order-scotch and soda for Merriweather, mineral water for Mangwana. As the waiter glided away Mangwana stared at the old man. "I assume there is a reason for this, Sinjin."  
  
"I suppose," Merriweather said. "I told Kirkland about our conversation last night."  
  
Mangwana's chiseled features remained still, but his eyelids lowered to half-mast. "You did."  
  
"Yes." The waiter placed their drinks on the table. Merriweather tasted his. "He knows your suspicions." He pointed at the silver briefcase, which sat on the floor beside Mangwana's ankle. "I assume your proof for your accusation is in there." Mangwana did not reply. "Come, come dear boy," Merriweather said. "Time is short."  
  
"Why?" Mangwana said.  
  
Merriweather sighed. "I assume you're asking why I told Kirkland, not why time is short. Don't try to understand an old man's motives, David."  
  
"You betrayed us."  
  
"I beg to differ. I divulged information you'd rather keep private. If I had betrayed you, you would even now be on your way to Kirkland's chokey."  
  
Mangwana sipped at his water. "And why am I not?"  
  
Merriweather waved a hand. "I'm an old man. I suppose it's possible that I told him the wrong flight on the wrong airline in the wrong terminal. An honest mistake."  
  
"Why do it?"  
  
Merriweather took a healthy drink. "I have seen the Watchers Council change during my lifetime. Some of those changes offend me. I know how it feels to see another chosen to mentor a Slayer. I've swallowed that bitter pill six times. I have seen us fight and squabble and behave badly. Still, if we are to stand for anything, the choosing ritual must be sacrosanct. It's one thing to be ambitious. It's another to tamper with our sacred texts out of disappointment."  
  
Mangwana tapped a finger against his bottle. "How can I trust you?"  
  
"My boy, I'm the one you can trust. I'm completely honest; I tell all to everyone. Now, I have a question. Did you discover this... duplicity on your own?"  
  
Mangwana hesitated, then shook his head. "No."  
  
"And do you have proofs in your case?" Mangwana nodded. Merriweather touched his upper lip with a forefinger. "Then I assume he or she was not present this weekend." He looked at Mangwana. "As I said, I'm afraid you will miss your flight." The old man signaled for the waiter, who appeared as if by magic. "Excuse me," Merriweather said. "Would you direct us to your fax machine?" 


	3. chapter 3

"Hi honey. How was your evening?" Joyce Summers leaned against the doorjamb, her bag still slung over a shoulder.  
  
Buffy shrugged. "The usual. Everybody comes and has a good time, but who's left to wash the dishes? Little old me." She looked at the clock. "Late night at the gallery?"  
  
Joyce smiled. "Mostly. We do have that new exhibit opening next month. But I also figured that you wouldn't want mom hanging around and putting a damper on your fun tonight."  
  
Buffy glanced over her shoulder. "Thanks, Mom. You're the best."  
  
Joyce made a no-big-deal face. "You make it pretty easy, kiddo." She took a step forward into the kitchen. "So why don't you tell me what's wrong?"  
  
Buffy sighed, her shoulders slumping. "It's Faith. Mom, I've tried everything to get through to her, just to talk to her, but..."  
  
"Honey, what happened to Faith was traumatic. All you can do is be there. You can't fix her. She'll understand someday."  
  
"Any idea how long?"  
  
Joyce stepped up behind her daughter. Her hand rubbed Buffy's upper arm. "How long did it take you?"  
  
"I'm not sure it's the same thing."  
  
Joyce folded her arms around Buffy. "It's not? Both of you lost someone you loved and were unable to stop it. On the one hand, Faith didn't have to kill Lindsay, but you weren't forced to watch someone else kill Angel." Joyce whispered in the Slayer's ear. "Did you immediately turn to someone for wise counsel?"  
  
Buffy flinched. "No."  
  
"But you did eventually. Faith will work through this. No one can simply walk around carrying that much rage and hate inside them. It will either eat her alive or she'll get rid of it. You stay strong. Try to be her friend. Someday she'll step out of that valley."  
  
Buffy forced a wan smile. "And this could take...?"  
  
Joyce hugged her tight. "I waited for three months. Why don't you set that as a boundary?"  
  
***  
  
Merriweather was right; David Mangwana missed his flight. It took well over an hour to fax all the documents in his briefcase. When the last page slid out of the machine he placed it on top of the stack, tapped the edges and hoisted them into the case.  
  
"What now?" Merriweather asked.  
  
"I try to get on the next flight," Mangwana replied, fastening the latches.  
  
"Is that wise? Kirkwood's associates have probably seen through my ruse by now. Perhaps you should drive to the coast, catch a ferry to the Continent--"  
  
Mangwana shook his head. "They know where I will be eventually. If I change my schedule, they will know that I know. This way, they may believe that they have contained the situation."  
  
Merriweather nodded. "That's sharp thinking."  
  
"I just need to know one thing." Mangwana looked at the old man. Knots of muscle stood out along the African's jaw line. "What will you tell Kirkland if he asks you about this?"  
  
Merriweather held out a hand, palm up. "I'll tell him that I helped you fax your proof to a colleague."  
  
"So you'll betray me again."  
  
"Not at all. Kirkland won't believe it. He'll think I'm a senile old man trying to scare him, take the piss a bit." Merriweather smiled. "Sometimes the truth's too outlandish for some to grasp."  
  
"I don't know whether to shake your hand or break your arm."  
  
"Shake hard enough and you probably will break my arm." Merriweather was unfazed. "I know this is cold comfort, but I don't dislike you, David. This was necessary. How else could I persuade Kirkland to take the viper into his bosom?"  
  
Mangwana looked at him for a long minute. "Perhaps you are senile."  
  
"Suppose it's possible. Still, when I told Kirkland about last night he actually tried to take a drink. Watching that prig try to digest a good scotch almost makes it worthwhile." Merriweather extended a hand. "Take care. Don't be too brave."  
  
Mangwana hesitated, then shook the offered hand before leaving the club. Merriweather slipped out a few minutes later and hid himself behind a newsstand. Mangwana was in line at the security point. He placed the silver case on the conveyor belt, stepped through the metal detector. As he picked up the case, one of the security guards said something to him and gestured toward a door in the wall. Mangwana followed him. The door opened. Merriweather caught a fleeting glimpse of two men in dark suits before David Mangwana was whisked inside and the door closed, leaving no evidence that he had ever walked the concourse.  
  
***  
  
  
"The tunnel was a stroke of genius," said Mr. Quisling. "With access to the sewers we've been able to keep our food supply steady and we're even beginning to replenish our numbers." He touched the knot in his tie. "And the Slayer seems none the wiser."  
  
"That's because she's not thinking," Mr. Trick said. He sat behind his desk, leafing through a catalogue from the Metropolitan Museum of Art. "Tell me, what do you think of this?" he said, indicating a collection of squiggles and geometric shapes.  
  
Quisling looked at it and shrugged. "Honestly, I can't judge modern art."  
  
"And that's your problem. You're like the Slayer, Quisling. Both of you are hung up in outmoded ideas." He tapped the book. "See, the point is not whether I like this picture. The point is that this painting will appreciate in value, which makes it a wise investment." He flipped the glossy catalogue shut. "The Slayer is running on hatred and vengeance." He wagged a disapproving finger. "Terrible motivations."  
  
Quisling cleared his throat. "So you don't hate the Slayer?"  
  
"I said hatred is a terrible motivator. It clouds the mind, produces bad judgment." Trick got up and walked around his desk. "Causes you to focus on one thing, instead of the big picture. That's the weakness of your traditional vampire. Everything's blood feuds and annihilation." He ran a finger along the top of his desk. "Vengeance is a dead end. I mean, what if you achieve it? Then what? You see, Quisling, vengeance is about personalities. Again, you lose sight of any greater goal."  
  
Quisling looked confused. "So you really don't hate them."  
  
Trick looked at him and Quisling caught a glimpse of black depths and nightmares. "Of course I hate them. And if I can destroy every one of them in the course of doing this job, I will." He shrugged. "But if not, que sera, sera. The contract comes first. Let the Slayer sit out there on the hill. Let her rage and thirst for revenge grow." He smiled. "Soon enough she'll turn it on someone else."  
  
***  
  
The sun rose on Sunnydale and promised another mild winter day. The weather had been so good that even Rupert Giles was in an optimistic mood. Guarded optimism, to be sure, but optimism nonetheless. He placed the breakfast dishes in the sink and rolled down his sleeves, buttoning them securely before slipping into a Harris tweed jacket.  
  
***  
  
The girl bolted out from between two parked cars, forcing Joyce Summers to slam on her brakes. Tires screeched and the Jeep rocked forward, tossing Joyce against her seat belt. As her head snapped back, Joyce thought she must have hit her head on the steering wheel. That was the only explanation. Why else would she think that the girl was standing on the hood of her car? Joyce blinked and the girl's face came into focus.  
  
"Faith?" Joyce said. The dark Slayer jumped down and trotted across the street. Joyce sat there, stunned, until the honking horn of the car behind her snapped her out of her trance. She rolled forward a few feet, glanced in her mirror, and then yanked the wheel to the left. She executed a screeching U-turn on impulse. She could see Faith on the sidewalk, walking away from her. Joyce gunned the engine, pulling past the girl and turning into a parking space just ahead of a red Saturn. She ignored the squalling horn and the driver's carefully selected display of digits as she jumped out of the Cherokee and planted herself on the sidewalk in the girl's path. Faith stopped and looked around as though searching for an escape route, then turned toward the curb.  
  
"Wait," Joyce said. "Please." Faith stutter-stepped; her knees almost buckled. She grimaced, then turned to face the older woman.  
  
"Hey, Mrs. S," she said.  
  
Joyce's approach was wary. She stopped a few feet away from the girl. "How are things going?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be in school?"  
  
Faith flushed. Her eyes glittered, then her white teeth flashed and her body relaxed. "School?" She shook her head. "You're something else."  
  
Joyce fidgeted, a nervous grin on her face. "Yeah, that was really, really... stupid, wasn't it?" She kneaded her forehead with a hand. "How about this? Can I buy you breakfast?"  
  
Faith looked at her for a long minute, then shrugged. "Sure. Sounds good."  
  
***  
  
Giles had both hands full when the phone rang. He dithered, starting to put down first one stack of papers, then the other. He finally dropped all the documents on the counter and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring. "Hello," he said, slightly out of breath, "Sunnydale High School Library."  
  
"Rupert, listen to me. Time is short."  
  
"G-Gerard?" Giles frowned.  
  
"I will be unreachable for a few days. I am sending a package to you. The contents of this package confirm what I discussed with you during our recent visit. A friend of mine is now unaccounted for because of these documents. Do you understand?"  
  
"Well, yes, yes, of course I understand. Gerard, what's--"  
  
"Be careful. Be very careful. A meeting of the Inner Council was held. A measure of necessity was approved."  
  
Giles felt a chill race up his neck. "Regarding?"  
  
"You, old friend. Regarding you. I will call when I can. Be careful. Good-bye." Giles stood stock-still, listening to the hum of the dial tone in his ear.  
  
***  
  
Joyce sipped a cup of tea and watched Faith use the last piece of toast to clean her plate before popping it into her mouth. The waitress advanced tentatively; she was fond of both of her hands and she'd almost lost one when she was a little slow putting the plate with the ham on it in front of the girl.  
  
"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, one hand plucking at the pad in her apron pocket.  
  
Joyce shook her head. "Nothing for me."  
  
"Yeah, yeah," Faith said, nodding as she drank the last of her milk. "Could I get an apple?"  
  
The waitress nodded. "Sure. One apple coming up." She hurried away.  
  
Faith leaned back in her chair and looked at the pile of dishes in front of her. "Whoa. Looks like I ate a lot."  
  
"Have you been eating enough?"  
  
Faith shrugged. "Yeah. I mean, I'm not going hungry, but it's usually more the beef jerky and Doritos breakfast for me."  
  
Joyce made a face. "That sounds horrible."  
  
Faith considered this. "I d'know. Works for me."  
  
Joyce studied the girl's clothing. "Are you still living at that motel?" Faith nodded. "How... What about your laundry?"  
  
Faith made a no-big-deal face. "Well, I don't have anything in the budget for laundry and ValleyView doesn't have a laundry room if I did, so I'm doing the whole rinsing in the sink thing."  
  
Joyce shook her head. "Come on," she said, getting to her feet.  
  
"What?" Faith said, not moving.  
  
"Come on. We're going to go to your room and get your laundry and then you're coming home with me and we're going to wash your clothes." Joyce set her jaw and nodded her head.  
  
"Don't you have to be at work?"  
  
"I'll call and take a personal day."  
  
Faith got up from the table. "Okay. I guess the next thing out of my mouth is... why?"  
  
"Because this is what I hope someone did for Buffy when she was alone."  
  
Faith's jaw tightened. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."  
  
***  
  
David Mangwana sat on a hard metal chair and looked at the massive stones that formed the opposite wall. These same large, square-cut cubes formed the other three walls as well. He did not know how long he had been here; the room was below ground level, so he could not use natural light as a measure, and they had taken his wristwatch, along with his shoes and belt. The only furnishings in the room were two identical chairs and a square metal table between them. He noted that all three pieces were bolted to the floor. He sat with his hands on his knees and his feet flat on the floor, waiting.  
  
The door opened and Humboldt Eubanks insinuated himself into the room. There is an old saying that say a book should not be judged by its cover, but the publishing industry spends millions of dollars every year designing covers that tell a potential buyer what might be found inside. Sometimes the cover predicts the contents exactly. It certainly did so in the case of Humboldt Eubanks.  
  
He was oleaginous and obsequious. After spending time in his presence people felt a strong need to wash their hands or gargle. He appeared as subtly and distinctly as a bad smell, but time and fresh air would not remove him. He was a bipedal leach, a remora in size ten-and-a-half shoes. He placed a stack of papers on the table, then oozed back to a place by the door. Kirkland swept into the room a very precisely timed three seconds after Eubanks came to quivering rest. Mangwana bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. Kirkland folded his heronlike frame into the other chair.  
  
"Ah, David," he said. Mangwana was fairly certain that his name was written in ballpoint on the inside of Kirkland's wrist. "Sorry to see you like this, but we seem to have a spot of trouble on our hands."  
  
"We do?" David kept his voice even and bland.  
  
"Yes. You see, these documents--" Kirkland dropped a hand onto the pile of papers "-these documents were found on your person. These documents are not to be taken off the premises."  
  
"Really? I was not aware of that." Mangwana nodded. "If you'll return my shoes I'll be on my way."  
  
"David, we are endeavoring to be civil here. A little cooperation will help us to continue to be so." Kirkland tapped the stack with a finger. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me why you're interested in these?"  
  
Mangwana knew that the Grand Inquisitor was serious, but he still almost laughed at the man's patent vanity and pretentiousness. "Of course. I needed them to confirm a hypothesis."  
  
"Which would be?"  
  
"That you manipulated the selection ritual in order to influence the identity of the next Watcher."  
  
Kirkland leaned back, lips pursed. "That's a serious accusation."  
  
"It certainly is."  
  
"Why would I do such a thing?"  
  
Mangwana leaned forward slightly, speaking with great precision. "Let us see if we can venture a guess. Lindsay Maeda was Asian, and a woman. Your contempt for both of those groups is no secret. In addition, she was young and just barely out of her training."  
  
Kirkwood laced his fingers together and stared at his hands as though he'd discovered an interesting piece of sculpture. "You wound me with these allegations and yet you've not answered my question. Why? What is my motive, outside of this supposedly well-known animus I bear against women and Orientals?"  
  
Mangwana's face was an ebony mask. "Your 'well-known animus' extends farther than that, but very well. Your primary purpose for sabotaging the ritual was to insure the selection of a Watcher who was not yet ready to oversee a Slayer. You wanted them to fail, to create a fiasco that would enable you to strike at the person who truly galls you-Rupert Giles. Lindsay's age and gender were simply happy coincidence." Mangwana leaned back in his chair. "How many do you think would vote for your measure of necessity if they knew that?"  
  
Kirkland flushed a dark red and exerted visible effort to control himself. "I know that you did not form this preposterous theory by yourself. Who is your accomplice?"  
  
"Why couldn't I? Because I'm from Africa, where we're only a generation out of the bush?"  
  
"No, because if you wouldn't need to attempt anything so dangerous as the theft of these papers if you didn't need to give them to someone." Kirkland leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Now, why don't you tell me who that is?"  
  
Mangwana's nostrils flared. "Sorry. I'm not Merriweather. I don't give it up for the asking."  
  
Kirkland shot to his feet. "No, you certainly are not Lord Merriweather, for he is a man who appreciates the sacred trust we have been given. He understands what it means to be a Watcher, unlike you lot with your shrines to trees and glass bottles."  
  
"Careful, Kirkland." Mangwana tilted his head back to look up at the standing Grand Inquisitor. "Your people used to worship trees, too. Druids, I believe they were called."  
  
Kirkland went a deep burgundy. "You mock me, go ahead. It will be your doom." Spittle flew from his thin lips as he spoke. "You may be here a very long time, and not in accommodations like these." He grabbed the papers, spun on his heel, and strode to the door, turning as he opened it. "You failed. You did not get this information to your confederate and we will be contacting the rest of that little group of layabouts you were fomenting. Your reach has exceeded your grasp." He sneered. "Not that that's saying much for your kind."  
  
"Kirkland," Mangwana whispered. "What if I told you I faxed them?"  
  
Kirkland stared at him, eyes blazing with fury. The door slammed with a heavy thud, causing Humboldt Eubanks to jump. He scrabbled for the knob, wrenching the heavy door open, his eyes on Mangwana the whole time.  
  
Just before Eubanks disappeared through the door, Mangwana leaned forward and said "Boo!" Eubanks jumped as a little yip escaped his mouth. He tried to run into the hall and slammed into the edge of the door, bounced back, steadied himself and made it out on the second try.  
  
Mangwana chuckled. That image was going to have to serve as his entertainment for a while. 


	4. chapter 4

Tyler Pittman held a rubber ball in his right hand. He stared at it for a while, then flipped it into the air and caught it with his left hand. He rolled the sphere around his fingers, held it up to the light, then tossed it back to the other hand.  
  
"Would you stop that?" Willow snapped.  
  
"Wow," he said. "Somebody sure pooped in your oatmeal."  
  
Willow glared at him. "It's not enough that you ignore every attempt to help you get your GPA up. You have to be disgusting, too."  
  
"Someone's touchy. Time of the month thing?"  
  
Willow's eyes bugged in fury. "You realize that I do know spells that can make your hair fall out?"  
  
Tyler shrugged. "That's why I keep it short." He bounced the ball on the table. "Seriously, what's bugging you?"  
  
Willow shook her head. "Nothing. I'm letting things get blown out of proportion."  
  
"Okay." He squeezed the ball and looked at her. "When are we gonna do it?"  
  
"Okay, that's it!" Willow slammed her book shut and pointed at him. "I have to sit here while you make no effort, I have to put up with your portrayal of jaded boredom, but I do not have to tolerate crass, se... You weren't talking about that, were you?"  
  
"If you're talking about sex, no I wasn't." Tyler rolled his eyes up. "When are you gonna let me show you how to cross over?"  
  
Willow waved a hand and shook her head. "No. Don't even. I'm not even sure astral projection even works. I've been reading up on it and--"  
  
"I'm not talking about astral projection. That's kiddie shit." Tyler leaned forward on his elbows. "I'm talking about crossing... dimensions, if you want to call it that. Not, you lying on a bed and sending your spirit out to float above you and see your body. Real hard core stuff, stepping into the world that underpins this world, seeing the gears and levers."  
  
Willow shook her head and looked at her book. "No. Crazy talk."  
  
Tyler ducked his head, trying to look into her eyes. "Yeah. But I know it's possible. And if you can do it, well, that's something nobody else can do."  
  
Willow's head came up.  
  
***  
  
Stefan Warner picked up the coffeepot in the teacher's lounge. It was empty. He breathed a very bad word, put the pot back, and began rummaging in the cabinet for filters. He had just pulled a box of them out when the pager on his belt vibrated. He grabbed the pager with his free hand and looked at it. He grimaced, tossed the filters back in to the cabinet, and went to find a secure phone.  
  
***  
  
Faith walked into the Summers kitchen drying her hair with a towel and wearing an old robe of Joyce's. "Thanks a lot," she said. "Nice to shower in a place with some water pressure besides gravity."  
  
Joyce smiled. "I can't believe you're actually living there."  
  
Faith flipped the towel over one shoulder. "Hey, it's paid for and it's not like the manager's gonna give me a refund."  
  
"What about school?"  
  
Faith shrugged, a so-what expression on her face. "What about it? Hey, if I was there I wouldn't be doin' so hot, so why not just eliminate the stress?"  
  
Joyce sat down at the table. "But what kind of life will you be prepared for?"  
  
Faith winked. "The slayin' life. It's what I do." She hesitated and for a brief instant her bravado dropped away. "Besides, what kind of life can I have without Lindsay?"  
  
"Oh, Faith." Joyce extended her hand toward the girl. "Honey, don't say that. You're not alone."  
  
"Yeah, see, that's the thing. I am. Everybody keeps telling me I'm not alone, and that they understand, but here's where you're wrong." Faith's eyes snapped. "You don't understand because you're not alone."  
  
"Faith, I'm sure Mr. Giles--"  
  
"Giles is Buffy's Watcher. That's the way it works. One Watcher per one Slayer."  
  
Joyce shook her head. "The world isn't like that. I'm not really sure about all of the details, but he's a good man. He would--"  
  
"Never have the connection with me. He has it with Buffy." Faith laughed, but the sound was mirthless and her eyes glittered like frost on an asphalt highway. "He has it with Buffy, you have it with Buffy, Buffy has it with Willow and Xander and they have it with each other... So many connections." She looked at Joyce with eyes like a hunted animal. "The only connection I ever had was with Lindsay, and she's gone." Joyce pressed a hand to her mouth, hot tears trickling from the corner of her eye, wending down her cheek. Faith blinked and shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. S. It was nice of you to do this. I'll get out."  
  
"You can't." Joyce fought to keep her voice under control. "Your laundry isn't finished."  
  
"Oh." Faith looked down. "I think I'll wait in the other room."  
  
***  
  
Giles jumped when the library door thumped open. A menacing figure stalked into the room. Giles blanched; it was worse than he'd imagined.  
  
"Mr. Giles, this school has a little thing called a budget. I realize it might not be important to you, but some of us are forced to live within its constraints." Principal Snyder tossed a thin booklet onto the counter. The covers were maroon cardboard; it was held together with brass brads and "Budget: Sunnydale Public Schools 1998-99" was lettered on the front cover in gold. "Take a look on page thirty-seven." Giles looked at the little bald man, shook his head, and turned to the page in question. "See that," Snyder said, jabbing his forefinger at the item in question. "That is the total amount budgeted for the library this year. And this--" His finger traveled across the page and indicated another number-"this is the amount we have actually spent on the library this year. As you can see, the second number is almost as large as the first, and we still have four months of school to go. Also, and this was of some concern to the members of the school board, the collection on the shelves does not seem to be growing any larger." Snyder sight and pulled himself close to the counter. "Which begs the question, Mr. Giles, what are we spending our library funds for?"  
  
Giles rubbed his forehead and counted to ten. "Principle Snyder, I distinctly remember telling you that the library was severely under-budgeted. It's true that we haven't added many new volumes, but that's because we had to replace so many old ones in the reference section." He leaned toward the stubby administrator. "Or do you really believe it's beneficial for the students in Current Events to research their assignments in books that still refer to the USSR and the Belgian Congo?"  
  
***  
  
Joyce put the Cherokee in park and cleared her throat. Faith sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window.  
  
"Faith," Joyce began, "I just want you to know--"  
  
"Yeah, that I'm always welcome and I'm not really alone. Yadda yadda yadda." Faith opened the door and grabbed the bag of clean laundry. She looked at Joyce. "I wish it was true. Thanks again, Mrs. Summers. This was really nice of you." She slammed the door and loped into unit #6 of the ValleyView.  
  
Joyce stared at the closed door and drawn curtains, then put the Jeep in reverse and backed out of the lot.  
  
***  
  
The sun was down when Giles locked the library and left the school. He kept his keys in his hand as he crossed the driveway and entered the parking lot. It seemed like a lot of trouble to put them in his pocket only to take them out again a few seconds later.  
  
He stopped. Had something moved in his peripheral vision? And what if it had? Why was he suddenly holding his breath and willfully staring straight ahead, trying to replicate whatever had happened? The seconds dragged before he exhaled. The corner of the eye was an untrustworthy place; even if he had detected motion, it was probably just a squirrel. Probably, but he still made a point of making a visual sweep of the area as he unlocked his door.  
  
He checked his mirrors constantly on the way home. He thought he saw the same car a couple of times, and once he thought he made out the dark shape of a vehicle with its lights out. The absurdity of his behavior struck him and caused him to laugh. Why was he worried about cars? Anyone who wished could probably follow the Citroen on foot. He was just rattled; Gerard's call had put him on edge, that was all. He told himself that and yet when he walked up the sidewalk to his apartment he listened for the sound of footsteps echoing his own, and thought he heard them at least once. His keys shook just a bit as he unlocked the door and he swung it shut just a bit too fast behind him. Giles stood there for a moment, back to the door, breathing heavily. When his pulse slowed he went and put on water for tea, and while he was waiting for it to boil he poured a large, a very large, whiskey.  
  
***  
  
Willow slit the top of the envelope and took a deep breath. She willed her fluttering hands to be steady and her heart to beat in normal rhythm. She swallowed the lump in her throat and took out the contents of the envelope. It was a sheet of paper, heavy, good quality paper, probably closer to cloth, but that was what she expected. She carefully put the envelope aside, then licked her dry lips as she looked at the folded letter. She unfolded it and began to read. The wording was remarkably similar to the dozens of other letters she had received, but as she made her way through the stock phrases and boilerplate a huge smile plastered itself on her face. She finished the letter, laid it on the desk, then reached under her bed and took out the shoebox. It was stuffed with letters, on white paper, on cream-colored stationery and light blue. Colorful seals and mottoes in Latin adorned them, but this last one was the Holy Grail. She exercised great care in placing it atop the others, making sure to display the three vital letters: MIT.  
  
***  
  
Oz wound the cord around his forearm and tucked it in the back of his amp. The other members of Dingoes were packing their equipment, except Devon. His microphone was already in its box. He sat in a corner, a strange, disturbing grin on his face.  
  
"Hey, man," Doug said, "you just gonna sit there looking like Jack Nicholson in The Shining or are you going to share?"  
  
"Actually, I do have an announcement to make." Devon stood up. "This is officially the first month where we've made money." A vast and reverent silence filled the garage.  
  
"What?" Doug asked.  
  
Devon dug in his pocket and pulled out a faded five and two ones. "Gentlemen, after deducting all our expenses from the money we made playing gigs, this is what's left. A profit. Not a big one, but a profit."  
  
"Don't blow it all on a Happy Meal," Oz said.  
  
"Hey, this is big," Devon insisted. "Sure it's seven bucks, sure, it's a joke, but think about it. All we've done is play pick-up gigs with no promotion, and we made money. What could we do if we really worked at it."  
  
"What's your point?" Trey said.  
  
Devon's hands waved as though he were searching for something. "Dude, there's a million high school bands going through the motions. When school's over they will be, too. I don't think we should be one of them. We can make it."  
  
Oz blinked slowly. "All that from seven dollars?"  
  
***  
  
Cordelia slid the letter into the clear plastic sleeve and slipped the sleeve into the three-ring binder. Thirteen previous letters, all encased in plastic, rested there. This letter made fourteen. So far every school she'd applied to had accepted her. She turned the pages, looking at each missive, calculating the balance she kept in her head. Fourteen down, six to go. Cordelia closed the binder and put it in her bookcase.  
  
***  
  
The Bronze was already loud and hot. Xander worked his way through the crowd, waving at familiar faces. Cordelia wasn't due for another hour, so he decided to enjoy the band, a six-piece funk-rock unit by the name of Placebo. The bass player was a little too possessed by the spirit of Flea, but the band as a whole wasn't bad and the crowd was dancing. Xander reached the bar and ordered an iced coffee.  
  
"Harris, surprised to see you by yourself." Xander turned and saw Todd Gilpin, a lanky senior with a miserable attempt at a soul patch and acne that looked like pebbles beneath his skin. Over his shoulder Xander could see Mitchell Freed. In middle school and early high school the three of them had engaged in mammoth Dungeons & Dragons marathons.  
  
"Todd, what's up?" Xander said.  
  
"Hey, you're talking to me?" Todd made a big show of looking surprised. "Mitch, Harris is talking to us." Mitchell let his eyes get big as he nodded his head, floppy hair flying.  
  
Xander frowned. "Y'know, this is starting to sound a lot like sarcasm which, if I recall, you suck at."  
  
"Yeah, you're the undisputed king now that you've got your hand on the Ice Queen's ass."  
  
"Excuse me?" Xander's eyebrows came together in puzzlement.  
  
"It's called pretension, Harris. Hang with Cordelia Chase all you want, you're still one of us." Todd looked contemptuous.  
  
Mitchell chimed in. "Yeah. One of us, one of us, one of us."  
  
"Sorry, I don't get where this is coming from, unless it's all about the jealousy." Xander turned back to the bar.  
  
"Yeah, that's what you've done, Harris. Turn your back on the people who were your friends back in the day. Before she started leading you around by the nose, or whatever she leads you by." Todd's laugh was particularly nasty.  
  
Xander pushed away from the bar and shoved through the crowd. He was so angry he slammed into a girl, almost knocking her down. "Hey," he said, "I'm sorry, it's... Faith?"  
  
"Hey," the dark Slayer said. A big guy who looked like his last time spent in high school might have been the Reagan years loomed over her shoulder.  
  
"This guy bothering you?" he asked in a voice as rough as his unshaven jaw. Xander gulped. If his anger was going to result in punches thrown, he should have stayed with Todd.  
  
"Down, boy," Faith said. The big guy looked down at her.  
  
"Hey, nobody messes with my chick," he said, his hot eyes flickering to Xander. Faith's eyes widened and she turned around.  
  
"Hey, nobody calls me their chick, not without written permission, got it?" She stepped up the guy, invading his space.  
  
"I'm just trying to stand up for you," he said, confused.  
  
"I don't think I need you to stand up for me," she said. "Why don't you go score some steroids. I'm suddenly bored." She turned back to Xander. The guy put a hand on her shoulder. Big mistake. Faith spun out from under the hand, reaching up and grabbing his thumb as she did. She twisted and there was a pop, barely audible over the band. She yanked him forward, bringing her knee up into his groin. His eyes bugged. Faith released his hand, placed her hand on his chest and pushed. He toppled over, disappearing into the crowd.  
  
"I see you're still a people person," Xander said. She looked at him for a long minute.  
  
"You wanna go outside?" she said. "I could use some air." 


	5. chapter 5

It was a warm night but it felt like a splash of spring water after the Bronze's stuffy interior. Faith ran her hands through her hair and held her arms out to the night. Xander stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pants and shuffled his feet. "So, haven't seen you around," he said.  
  
"I been busy," was her simple reply. She looked up at the stars before turning to face him. "So that's it? No inquiries into how I've been? What I'm feeling?"  
  
He shook his head. "Nope."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
He shrugged. "It would sound stupid. Plus I figure you've been feeling crappy. I would if I were in your shoes."  
  
"Hey, an honest man." Faith stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. "Everybody else keeps laying it on kinda thick."  
  
"They mean well. They want to help. They know you've got a lot of weight on your shoulders, slaying and all." Xander rubbed his knuckles on his chin. "You might listen to Buffy, though. She understands better than the rest of us."  
  
"Because she had to kill Angel, right?" Faith pursed her lips as Xander nodded. Then she grimaced and shook her head. "See, not the same. She ran him through because she had to, she didn't watch somebody else do it while she was helpless, plus she got him back. Think there's any chance of Lindsay coming back?"  
  
Xander shook his head. "Guess not. So what's your plan?"  
  
"Who needs a plan? I slay, I party, I die young."  
  
"Ah, nihilism as existential statement. Pretty derivative, don't you think?"  
  
Faith frowned. "What?"  
  
Xander shrugged. "The whole 'life's over so I'll spend it wantonly' thing. Been done, don't you think?" He ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just saying, yeah, you've gotten a raw deal-almost from day one. But you're here, at this place right now. The rest of the world is moving. You can't stay still, even if you try. Question is, how are you gonna move?"  
  
"Are you sounding deep?" Cordelia appeared out of the dark and threaded her hand through Xander's arm. She looked away from him and saw Faith. "Oh. How are you?"  
  
Faith's eyes smoldered. "Five by five. Xander was just giving me his take on my life experience."  
  
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Well, don't listen to him. He's never been anywhere." She turned to Xander. "Want to go in?"  
  
"Sure," he said. "I think the mood's broken out here." He looked at Faith. "Want to come with?"  
  
Faith shook her head. "Nah. You guys have a good time. I'm gonna think about what you said." She watched them enter the club. "You think the world's moving now?" she said as the door closed. "Just wait. It's about to get a whole lost faster." She turned on her heel and disappeared into the darkness.  
  
***  
  
"Mom, where's the orange juice?" Buffy pulled her head out of the refrigerator.  
  
"Oh, I forgot, it's all gone." Joyce put on her earrings as she walked briskly through the kitchen. "I'll pick up some more on my way home."  
  
"Okay." Buffy opened a cabinet and looked inside, then turned to her mother with a frown on her face. "Wasn't there peanut butter in there?"  
  
Joyce made a face and clenched her fists. "Sorry. It got eaten. I'll put it on the list."  
  
Buffy leaned against the counter and crossed her arms. "Mom, if you're having some sort of torrid affair while I'm at school, you should tell me. Not that I'm judging, I just don't want to come home one day and walk in on something that will have me on heavy doses of prescription anti-psychotics for the rest of my life. Especially if it involves food."  
  
Joyce glared at her daughter. "Ha ha. Very funny." She took a deep breath. "Faith ate it."  
  
Buffy's eyes widened. "What?"  
  
"I ran into her yesterday. I talked her into breakfast and then before I knew it I was doing her laundry and she was eating lunch. A lot of lunch. I hope you're not upset." Joyce winced.  
  
"Upset?" Buffy crossed the room and threw her arms around her mother. "Mom, that's great." She stepped back, holding her mother by the shoulders. "Have I told you how fabulous you are?"  
  
"Not nearly often enough." Joyce's smile was wry. "And don't think I didn't notice that you're saying this as I have to leave for work."  
  
"And as I have to leave for school." Buffy swung her backpack off the counter onto her shoulder. "But, speaking as serious girl, I'm glad you got through to her."  
  
Joyce held up a warning hand. "I'm not sure I got all the way through. Be patient."  
  
Buffy arched her eyebrows and made a pouty mouth. "I'm the very picture of patience." Joyce rolled her eyes and pulled the door closed behind her.  
  
***  
  
"Does it ever freak you out?" Buffy asked Willow as they watched Xander and Cordelia walk toward the lounge. Buffy and Willow sat on the couch with Oz sandwiched between them.  
  
Willow studied the approaching couple for a while. "Sort of, but not aggressively so. It's sort of like bumblebees."  
  
"Excuse me?" Buffy leaned forward to look past Oz.  
  
"Well, you know, bumblebees can't fly, or at least they shouldn't. Their bodies are too big for the wings. But they do fly." She nodded toward Xander and Cordy. "It shouldn't be, but it is."  
  
"Let it be written, let it be sung." Buffy flopped back against the couch.  
  
"I regard it as a surrogate drug experience," Oz offered. "It's sort of disorienting but intriguing."  
  
"What are you guys discussing?" Xander said.  
  
"Nothing," the trio said quickly.  
  
"Color me surprised," Cordelia said.  
  
"Hey, everybody. What's shakin'?"  
  
They all turned. Jaws dropped and eyes widened before Buffy said, "Faith?"  
  
The dark Slayer shrugged. "Five by five, ten feet tall and bulletproof." She held her arms wide. "It's me." She wore jeans and a red jersey top with 3/4 length sleeves and a V-neck. A white 55 was emblazoned on the upper left chest.  
  
"Wh--" Buffy popped to her feet. "It's great to see you."  
  
"Yeah. Somebody told me that the world was going to move on whether I was on board or not." Faith glanced at Xander. "This seemed like a good first step to getting back on the horse."  
  
"I'd love to stay for the reunion, but I've got elsewhere to be." Cordelia cocked her head. "Faith, good to see you. Conditioner might be a good second step." She walked away.  
  
"I gotta go," Xander said. "Not to be anywhere but because... you know." He sprinted after Cordelia.  
  
Faith frowned. "Do you think they're doing the dirty yet? 'Cause otherwise, I can't figure out what's going on there."  
  
"I wouldn't stress over it." Buffy took Faith by the arm. "Come on. Let's go see Giles."  
  
***  
  
Gunther Koenig picked up a napkin and dabbed at his plump lips. Waves of rapture enveloped him; today's croissant was so delightfully buttery and his sausages were perfection itself, the casing crisp and sizzling, the inside juicy. Koenig sighed. His doctor would be displeased with his cholesterol count again. The physician did not understand that the portly Watcher really didn't eat that much. He simply enjoyed what he ate too much. This was Koenig's theory, at any rate. Besides, when one realized the true thinness of the membrane that separated life from death, it was very difficult to be concerned with one's dietary habits.  
  
Koenig pushed the chair away from the little round table that he occupied in the corner of the café. He made his way through the crowded room, a round man with a curious, almost mincing gait due to his small feet. He smiled and shook hands with many people, exchanging pleasantries with other patrons. Some of them had been coming to breakfast here as long as he had, twenty-seven years. He took his coat and hat from the stand and wrapped his scarf securely around the spot where his neck used to be, years ago. The café was warm and comforting, but outside it was very cold and the wind was sharp as a sushi chef's favorite knife. Koenig buttoned up tight, placed his homburg firmly on his round head and headed back to his office.  
  
The walk was only six blocks, but his eyes were watering within two. Crusts of dirty snow still clung to shadowy corners and the leaden sky overhead promised to cover them with a clean layer of white. He reached the old four-story brick building, his labored breathing producing white clouds that made it look as though he ran on steam power. He entered the lobby and immediately began to sweat. The elevator was out of service again, a fact that produced a groan from Koenig. He struggled up the three flights of stairs, breathing heavily as he reached his landing. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then stepped onto the worn carpet of the hall, fishing in his pocket for his keys. The lettering on the pebbled glass read:  
  
G. Koenig & Associates  
Legal Research & Genealogical Data  
  
He inserted his key into the heavy deadbolt and turned. The mechanism worked with well-oiled and machined precision. Koenig proceeded into his office and stopped, his mouth gaping open. Normally his office was a cozy space, the book-lined walls making the room seem smaller than it was. His desk was centered in front of the only window and on most mornings the fifteen newspapers he received would be tied in a neat bundle.   
Instead of that comforting image, he was greeted by anarchy. Books were pulled from the shelves, drawers taken from the desk, pictures thrown from the walls.  
  
Gunther Koenig had never been an adventurous man. He had been content, nay, happy, to sequester himself here in Geneva, dedicating his life to the translation and interpretation of texts. Their arcane glow had consumed him and he in his turn treasured them. He was valuable to the Watchers Council and that was enough for him. Every time a new Slayer had been called and he was passed over for the assignment, Koenig had breathed a sigh of relief and taken it as a sign that there was a God or Someone or Something that knew he was exquisitely unsuited for the position. This was his proof that there was at least some intelligence guiding the universe and he had thanked Whatever Was Out There that it/he/she/they had seen fit to let him continue to fill his perfect little niche. This was the sum of his life and it passed rapidly before his eyes as the blade slid into his neck.  
  
It was a thin blade, almost a spike, and very, very sharp. It passed rapidly and with ease through layers of fat and muscle, severing blood vessels and puncturing both Koenig's carotid artery and his trachea. It was withdrawn with very little blood; the fat encircling his neck closed, sealing the wound. Internally, it was another matter; blood flooded from the perforated artery and rushed down the trachea to fill the lungs. Koenig fell to his knees, then to his side. As he drowned in his own blood, Gunther Koenig's last view was the crazily tilted panorama of his office. 


	6. chapter 6

Giles looked up. The mail carrier thrust a package at him. The Watcher frowned for a heartbeat, then remembered the phone call. His pulse quickened and his mouth grew dry. "Can I help you?" he asked.  
  
"If you're Mr. Giles you can sign for this." She held out a small electronic device. He took it and noticed the small, rectangular green screen and the stylus dangling on a grubby piece of string. He scrawled his signature, she touched her fingers to her cap and left the library. He turned the package around to look at it. It was wrapped in rough brown paper and sealed with a great deal of scotch tape. His name and the school's address were written in a shaky hand, probably with a marker. He simply looked at it for a few minutes. This was his Rubicon, he thought, then corrected himself. This would simply confirm that he had already crossed, that his life was forever altered. He took a deep breath and ripped the paper.  
  
***  
  
David Mangwana lifted his head as the door opened and Kirkland stepped into the cell. 'Cell' seemed a strong word for a well-appointed room with narrow windows, but Mangwana was no fool. The room was on the third floor and those windows had iron bars over them. The locked door and the sound of footsteps and voices made him aware that someone was always keeping watch. Mangwana doubted that he would ever leave.  
  
Kirkland wore a three-button suit, black, over a white shirt buttoned to the neck with no tie. He was trying for stylish; he achieved smug. The door closed behind him and the two men stared at each other across the room. Mangwana's face was impassive, his eyes dark and still.  
  
"It has begun," he said. "You have killed Koenig."  
  
"Oh, I see," Kirkland said. "Now, I say 'How did you know that' and you say 'I didn't until just now.' Always works in the cinema."  
  
Mangwana's expression was grave and stoic as he stood. "I do not rely on parlor tricks. I know because I sent my spirit out to search for him. You sent assassins to him, killers with blades and they took his life." David's face did not move but fire ignited in his eyes. "The blood of a brother is on your hands."  
  
"Spare me." Kirkland's urbane front curdled. "I don't need to listen to your jungle hogwash. 'Sent your spirit out'... What next, will you steal a lock of my hair to tie to a doll and stab with pins?"  
  
Mangwana shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. "You don't even understand what you're doing, do you? First you desecrate the rituals, now you order the murder of a member of our Order, all the while declaiming the need to hold fast to our sacred traditions. What tradition does the slaughter of one of our own uphold?" He sat down. "You don't even realize the path you're taking."  
  
"I am taking the path that will restore us to our proper position," Kirkland snapped. "Now, tell me who you faxed those documents to and what you told the others that night, and I'll rescind my order to deal with the other members of your little cabal."  
  
"Cabal?" Mangwana smiled. "You suspect us of acting as you would." His eyes narrowed. "At least tell me you didn't intend for the Maeda woman to be killed."  
  
"I suspect you of being a treasonous bastard," Kirkland said. "And my intentions are none of your business. Now, an account of your conversation please."  
  
"No." Mangwana shook his head again. "Your agents will continue their task anyway." He looked around the room. "I'm surprised you stand here alone." He feinted toward the other man. Kirkland started and waved a hand. Red and purple filigreed the air between them. Mangwana laughed. "I suspected you had warded the room."  
  
"I'll do more than that." Kirkland reached out and rapped on the door with the knuckles of his right hand. The door opened and Humboldt Eubanks entered, carrying a pair of gloves on a square pillow. Kirkland pulled on the creased old leather gauntlets. "Remember these?" he said. "I'll bet you thought they were a legend, but they're not. The gloves of Eris Theon, last worn by Gilbert of Trent. You're quite the scholar, so I believe that you know what they can do?" Kirkland looked at Mangwana and smiled a smile to frighten small children and give dogs nightmares. "Let's see if they're all the ancients claim, shall we?" He extended his hands toward Mangwana.  
  
David steeled himself but the shock of pain in his chest still took his breath away. Pressure increased and the pain rose from a dull throb to a steady agony. He heard his rib snap.  
  
"Well," said Kirkland, holding up his hands as Mangwana gasped, "that was certainly impressive, wasn't it? Let's see what else we can do."  
  
***  
  
Giles did his best to not run as he left the library. The package was under his arm, most of it still wrapped in the torn brown paper. He hit the door hard, banging it open as he broke into a trot going down the steps.  
  
Matti Hollis poked her head out from her spot between two banks of lockers. The door swung shut with a loud clack. Her eyes narrowed as she considered her options.  
  
***  
  
Willow stared at her shoes. They were red canvas sneakers. She could feel the seam of one of her socks wrapped around her little toe. It annoyed her. She wiggled her toes. This only caused the seam to shift its position slightly. She looked at her feet more closely. She wiggled her toes again, aware of the movement, but also conscious of the fact that she couldn't see anything happening.  
  
"Hey, if you get any deeper in thought we'll have to send in spelunkers." She jumped at Oz's words, startled out of her reverie. They were seated on a bench outside the school, grabbing a few minutes of quiet as students rushed past.  
  
"Oh, sorry," she said. "I was thinking about something."  
  
"Apparently," he said. "Anything you want to share?"  
  
She shrugged. "I don't know. It sounds petty and shallow."  
  
"Hey, two emotions I can relate to." He smiled. "If it'll make you feel better, I'm here."  
  
Willow grimaced. "I hate myself when I'm this way. I know that it's a good thing that Faith's back in school, but did you notice how quick her and Buffy went off together?" She sighed. "It's like I'm friend 1-A again."  
  
Oz nodded. "I get it."  
  
"I'm good enough when Buffy's freaked about getting mind-warped by Trick and Faith's not around, but let Miss CrazySexyCool show up and bam! I'm Thursday's turkey pot pie again." Willow took a deep breath, a scowl of anger clouding her features. She looked at her feet again and suddenly the scowl vanished. She shot to her feet.  
  
"Sorry," she said to Oz. "I gotta go. I need to see someone, okay?"  
  
"Always," he said, but she was already quick-walking across the lawn away from him.  
  
***  
  
"Giles? Earth to Giles?" Buffy's knuckles rapped on the counter but the librarian did not appear. "Sorry," she said as she turned to Faith, "you know he's usually in here."  
  
"I think he stepped out for a minute." The girls turned and saw Ms. Hollis standing in the door. "I saw him leave like, thirty seconds ago. He might be back any minute." The Slayers looked at each other.  
  
"Hey B, it's no thing." Faith shrugged. "Besides, I gotta book. You know, classes and stuff. Catch you later?"  
  
"Sure," Buffy said. "Later." The girls left the library, Faith going straight down the hall, Buffy turning left. Matti watched until distance diminished them, then she raced toward the door.  
  
***  
  
Willow crossed the cafeteria with longer than usual strides. She was moving so fast that she skidded a little when she stopped. She tossed a notebook onto the table; it landed with a sharp smack. Tyler Pittman looked up from his book.  
  
"Okay," she said. "Show me what you got."  
  
***  
  
The trembling hand lowered the knife back to the coals. The hand did not quiver with weakness but rather with the strength of its grip. The blade had cooled to a dull red. Curled bits of white skin clung to its edges.  
  
The followers of Othniel Hampton stood outside the closed door and stared. Their leader had fallen into these moods before. Coyne paced in front of the door and the waves of nervousness coming off of that scarred old vampire caused the others to shake in their boots (or sneakers or oxfords or pumps or...). Their master had sequestered himself in his private sanctum some hours ago.  
  
The door slammed open and the smell of burned meat filled the basement. Coyne jumped and the groups fell back a pace. Hampton stood in the doorway, his eyes blazing with weird energy, sweat beading his face and running down his neck.  
  
"Hear me," he said, his voice rasping in their ears. "We have been lax, slumbering while the unjust labor." He blinked, swaying from side to side. "No more. We will become as cleansing fire. The corruption must be purged and our purpose restored." He raised his hands. "We were not put here to serve mammon nor to love this world. We are to judge it." He looked at them, his posture rigid, his eyes aflame. "Today, I tell you, today is the day of our restoration. I have been blind, but now I see. I have made peace with the enemy, but when he deigned to touch one of the anointed, his true face was made plain to me." He looked around and where his eyes met theirs a spark kindled. "We must be the instruments to punish that offense. And we will punish them until their hearts cry out."  
  
***  
  
Robert Woo slowed as he approached the door of his apartment. All day he had felt that something was out of balance, out of alignment, and now as he approached his domicile, the sensation was increasing. He paused before the door, gathering himself. He took two deep breaths and immediately sank into a deep meditative state. He remained immobile for thirty seconds, then took another deep breath and opened his eyes. There were two men in his home; he'd felt them in his trance. He opened the door and stepped inside, immediately sliding to his left and dropping into a crouch. The knife passed through the air where his head had been an instant before. The blade crunched into the wall. Robert kicked the assailant's feet out from under him; the man fell with a thud. Woo rose and took two fluid steps backward along the wall. The second man stood in the middle of the room. The first got up from the floor and pulled the knife out of the wall. They were big men in dark clothing and ski masks. Robert extended a hand toward them.  
  
"I give you this opportunity," he said, "to leave without penalty." They looked at each other, then started to move apart. "I'm serious," he said, first in Mandarin, then in English. A harsh laugh erupted from the second assailant as a butterfly knife appeared in his hand.  
  
Robert motioned and a ring of fire sprang up from the floor, surrounding them. Streams of flame arced up, meeting over their heads, trapping them in a cage of fire. Robert went into the only bedroom and returned with a large duffel bag over his shoulder. He looked at them for a moment, then made another gesture. The flames began to draw inward, pushing the two assassins toward each other. They remained silent. The cage shrank, pressing them back-to-back and forcing them to crouch. The smell of singed hair and burned wool filled the room. Robert paused at the door and looked back. One of the men met his gaze with a look of hatred, then extended a hand, middle finger raised. Robert shook his hand and signaled. The cupola of flames collapsed inward.  
  
As he closed the door behind him he reflected that neither of them ever spoke a word. As he reached the street sirens could be heard. Robert shook his head. The fire would extinguish itself when it was finished with the two assassins. The only thing the fire fighters would discover was some smoke damage, slight singeing, and two piles of ash and bone.  
  
***  
  
"I was thinking," Xander began.  
  
"Well, we'll see that you get a gold star for that," Cordelia said.  
  
"You know, some day you're going to be one of those women who complain about how men won't share their feelings. When that happens, I want you to remember what you just said." Xander pouted.  
  
"Sorry," Cordelia said. "What were you thinking about?"  
  
He stood up straight. "About our anniversary. We've been dating for over a year now."  
  
"No we haven't." Cordelia put her Sociology book in the locker. "We've only been dating..." She thought for a minute, then her eyes widened. "Oh my God. It has been a year. A whole year. It can't be."  
  
"And I must say that your reaction warms my heart." Xander rolled his eyes. "Anyway, we didn't celebrate it because of, you know, the thing with you and then the thing with Faith, and I don't think we want to wait until Valentine's Day because, well, you remember what--"  
  
"Yes," she said, holding up a hand. "What are you saying?"  
  
"Remember how you were planning on going to Domenico's?" Xander took a deep breath. "Well, I've been saving up and I thought that maybe we could go tonight. Sort of an anniversary dinner."  
  
She touched his cheek. "That is so sweet. Of course."  
  
He nodded hastily. "So how about we meet at the Bronze and then go? Say, seven?"  
  
"Sure." She closed the locker door and turned back to him. "Has it really been a year?"  
  
"Trust me," he said. "Sometimes it seems like more."  
  
*** 


	7. chapter 7

"Look, it's simple." Tyler held up a hand, the palm perpendicular to his face. "You get yourself a focal point, empty your mind, concentrate, and..." His hand moved away from his nose. "...you just slip over."  
  
Willow shook her head. "There's no ritual?"  
  
"None." He bit his lip. "It's like this. You're at the ocean, okay, and you've got a bucket. You can stand in the surf up to your ankles and dip water out with your bucket all day, or you can get on a board and surf. Your spells and stuff are like the bucket. You get the illusion of control, of dipping the water yourself, but you're ignoring the rest of the ocean. What I'm talking about is like surfing. All you can control is the board, but it's a helluva ride."  
  
Willow stared at him for a long time. "Okay," she finally said. "Let's do it. After school."  
  
***  
  
Giles rubbed his hand over his face. He had done that many time during the afternoon, so many that one more pass would render his cheeks raw. He settled his glasses on the bridge of his nose and stared at the papers in front of him.  
  
Some of the documents hadn't transmitted very well; they were faxes of copies and the quality was already degraded. Vellum, papyrus, leathers and berry ink were not the most stable media. Still, they were good enough, and the modern entries, the minutes of meetings and the transcripts of rituals, were damning in and of themselves. When Gerard Roland had suggested chicanery in the choosing of Lindsay Maeda, Giles had been inclined to scoff, but now he saw that even his old friend's suspicions did not go far enough.  
  
The selection process had been interfered with and impeded at every step of the way. Worse, Giles knew who was behind the malfeasance.  
  
Desmond Kirkland. Giles remembered him, a pale, jealous boy two or three years younger than the librarian, always trying to achieve through subterfuge what might have been attained by effort. He had possessed grasping ambition, a bottomless sense of having been wronged or ignored, and a pinchpenny soul that kept accounts and always, always tried to settle them. And now he was the Grand Inquisitor.  
  
Something tapped against the window. Giles jumped, his elbow knocking a small pile of papers to the floor. He hurried to the window and peered out, standing with his back to the wall and looking around the edge of the frame. A wasp buzzed outside, veering into the glass at irregular intervals. Each collision reverberated through the room, at least in the Watcher's ears. Giles exhaled and realized that he had been holding his breath.  
  
He noticed the papers on the floor and hurried to pick them up. He stared at the stack of documents, then scooped them up and took them to his bedroom. He put them on a shelf at the back of his closet, hurried down the stairs and out the door. The apartment suddenly seemed small and claustrophobic. It was an undertow, sucking him down into darkness. He needed to get out and breathe some fresh air.  
  
***  
  
Robert Woo did not look right or left as he crossed the deck and descended the ship's staircase. He was sure there was some nautical term for the stairs, but he could not remember it. He went directly to his berth (he remembered that term) and locked the door. Satisfied that he was secure for the moment, he sat down on the bunk and unzipped the brand new duffel bag. The bag was full of new clothes and personal items. Woo had purchased them on his way to the harbor. He began to unwrap the shirts and break his toiletries out of their packing.  
  
He was not a particularly impressive figure. He lacked David Mangwana's charisma and physical force, Sofia Pellecanos' emotional intensity or even Gunther Koenig's vigorous intellect. He was a man of average height, a few years from full middle age, who dressed well and enjoyed going to films and romancing attractive women who were almost too young for him. He presented a bland, unremarkable façade to the world at large. He was accessible and approachable and a great many people would count him as their friend, but when pressed they would be forced to admit that they really didn't know much about his depths. That was because Robert kept those depths sealed off, secured by an airtight bulkhead barricaded with concrete-filled sandbags. But now it was different. The bulkhead had not been fully breached, but the unmistakable hiss of escaping air pressure could be heard. His enemy had done the unforgivable: he had attacked Robert Woo's home and now Robert Woo would visit him in his lair.  
  
***  
  
"I don't get it." Willow looked away from the wall, glimpsing Tyler from the corner of her eye.  
  
"Well, you're never gonna if you keep breaking concentration." He stepped in front of her. His chocolate-brown eyes filled her field of vision. "You gotta stay focused."  
  
"It's hard." Frustration seeped into Willow's voice.  
  
"No, it's not. It's easy. You're making it hard." He blinked. Willow could see every perfectly curved hair of his beautiful lashes. "You keep trying to make it happen. I told you, it's not like a spell. You can't make it happen, you have to let it happen. Now, just look in my eyes. No, not in my eye. Look in both my eyes." He sighed in irritation. "Let your eyes unfocus so you can see both of mine. Now just relax. Empty your mind. Just look at me."  
  
Willow tried to keep her exasperation at a manageable level. Tyler was an annoying little putz, but he did have beautiful eyes. This would be so much easier if there was a spell or something, something she could do to wedge open this door he talked about. She caught herself and made a conscious effort to empty her mind. He really did have beautiful eyes, the little schmuck. They had flecks of gold in the iris. One of the flecks became sharp-edged and clear. Her vision blurred...  
  
And she was somewhere else. Or Somewhere Else. Or SomeThing Else. Everything was gray shot through with gold, only 'everything' wasn't the right word, because there was nothing around her. She was surrounded by gray-gold nothing, only 'she was surrounded' seemed a little pompous, because she couldn't determine whether she in fact had any physical form. Something suggested she did not. There was no up or down or left or right; but the voices were different.  
  
Some of them were angry, some were pleading, others seemed full of joy. They were no longer just an undifferentiated mass of noise in her head, but took on some sort of coherence, even if she couldn't make out any words. She tried to turn to find them and a wave of vertigo swamped her and she began to spin, or at least it felt like spinning and the centrifugal force was shredding her essence...  
  
She landed on her back with a thump. Her head bounced off the linoleum, causing little starbursts of light to fill her vision. As her sight cleared she could see Tyler leaning over her, hands on his knees. He was breathing fast.  
  
"It worked, didn't it?" he said. "I knew it would. You got there, didn't you? Damn!" He jumped up in the air, punching one fist toward the ceiling. "I knew it. I knew it."  
  
"Uh," Willow said as she struggled to a sitting position, "could you help me up?"  
  
***  
  
Buffy knocked on the door one last time, then shook her head and turned away. She was at a loss. If Giles wasn't home, she had no idea where he might be. She had assumed that his absence from school was due to illness; probably a fast-attacking case of the stomach flu. But here she was, just before dusk, and no one was home. Which meant that Giles wasn't sick. So where was he?  
  
***  
  
He was in a bar. Not a dark, seedy place for a man to drink cheap whiskey and savor past regrets, but some brightly-lit theme establishment not far from the university. The crowd was mostly Polo-shirted young men trying to impress Liz Claiborne-wearing young women. Giles hunched over a table in the corner farthest from the door. He had chosen this place because... he had to admit to himself that he wasn't sure why he was here, except that it was away from home and if anyone came looking for him here, they would surely be noticeable. And he needed time. To think. To reconcile what he now knew with what he believed. To try and find a way out.  
  
***  
  
Xander drummed his knuckles on the tabletop and looked around. No Cordelia. He shook his head. Cordy had many faults, but lateness was not one of them. She was now thirty minutes overdue.  
  
"Hey, what's with you?" Buffy slid onto the chair beside him. "Jacket, tie--"  
  
"It's a bolo," Xander blurted.  
  
"Still. What's with the hair?"  
  
He winced. "It's high, isn't it? I went with mousse. Is it really high?"  
  
Buffy shrugged. "It's got a certain 'My Prerogative' thing going on." She patted his arm. "But it'll do, pig, it'll do. What's the occasion?"  
  
Xander sighed, a sound that caused Buffy to frown. He looked down at his hands as he spoke. "Cordy and I have been dating for a year, so we're going to Domenico's."  
  
"Has it been a year?" Buffy did some fast calculating. "Wow." She took a sip of her coffee. "That's very sweet. I hope you have a really good time." The last part stuck in her throat just a little.   
  
"Gee, Buff, you almost made it to sincere," Xander said.  
  
"I'm serious." Buffy couldn't help smiling. "It still seems perverse to me, but you and Cordelia somehow kinda bring out each other's good qualities."  
  
"Possibly because we exorcise so much of our bile on each other," Xander quipped.  
  
"Possibly." Buffy couldn't repress a small smile as she stood. "I gotta walk. Have a good time and don't dog her when she shows up. She's probably just taking time to make sure she looks good."  
  
Xander's eyebrows arched. "What, twenty-four hours in a day isn't enough?"  
  
***  
  
Coyne held himself still as stone and willed the others to do the same. It was always hard to lay a trap for another vampire, what with the sensitive hearing and smell and all. This was what they should have been doing all along. Coyne had learned long ago not to question his master, but he could not figure why they had come to this one-horse town and then why they had been so obliging to that uppity black scruff across town (in addition to his many other unpleasant traits, Coyne had never outgrown the rather virulent racism that had been part of his human existence. It was the sort of trait that the demon savored).  
  
Their quarry had slowed as they approached the alley. Coyne would have cursed, but they would surely have heard it. Instead, he forced himself to relax. This was why they had brought the bait. The four vamps in black BDUs hesitated at the mouth of the passage, their posture vigilant and suspicious. Coyne held his ground, then heard the scrape of nails being pulled out of wood. The four heard it as well, tensing in response. They were coiled like steel springs as the girl stumbled across the far mouth of the alley.  
  
The sight of fresh defenseless prey overrode their caution. The quartet sprinted into the murk of the alley. Coyne held his place as they rushed past. When they reached the mark, he leaped out. His underlings followed suit. Trick's four vampires found themselves surrounded. They hesitated, puzzled by this show of aggression. They had no chance anyway, but the indecision made the battled even more short lived. Three were soon dust and the fourth, well, the fourth wished he was dust. Coyne surveyed the screaming mess on the floor of the alley, then turned to one of his compatriots.  
  
"Bring the crate," Coyne growled. The underling slapped the vamp next to him on the shoulder and they raced away. They made a lot of noise dragging the box back, but as they appeared out of the gloom they brought a bonus. One of them held the bait firmly in his grasp. The girl struggled, but the demonic fingers dug into her neck and she winced in pain.  
  
"You didn't run?" Coyne stepped up close, seeing the tracks of her tears glowing silver in the dim alley. His tongue flicked out, licking one of the salty tracks. The girl flinched away, shuddering. "Well," Coyne said, "at least we won't have to drag this bastard back thirsty." 


	8. chapter 8

Giles unlocked the Citroen and climbed in. He had done a thorough perimeter check and even looked under the chassis and hood for explosives, an action that would have brought whoops of laughter from any bystander who divined his intent. He scanned the faces on the sidewalk but no one looked out of place. Of course he was probably fooling himself by believing that he would be able to detect them, but it was the last sop he could throw to his vanity.  
  
The evening had been ghastly, hours of movement for its own sake, motivated by fear. A few minutes ago he had experienced an epiphany. He wasn't afraid of them, whoever they might be. What really churned his stomach, what made his hands shake and his head grow light, was the knowledge that he really had no place to go. Vampires, demons, wraiths, goblins, he had faced them all, but always with the knowledge that he was part of a greater good, a warrior in a dedicated army.  
  
Now he just felt like a fool. Rupert Giles turned the key in the ignition and put the tiny car in gear.  
  
***  
  
Xander checked the time, then ran his hands through his hair. Said hair was now sticking straight up but he was long past caring. Here he sat, in a borrowed sport coat and a dumbass bolo tie, humiliated beyond anything he could remember, which meant this was a grave ignominy indeed. He checked the time again. Ten-thirty, which made Cordelia officially three and a half hours late. He put a mental asterisk by that thought-after the asterisk he added 'without a phone call or anything.'  
  
He had tried calling her, but the only answer he got was the machine. The Bronze was loud and rocking; it seemed that everyone else was part of a couple and they were all looking at him. He pushed away from the table. Xander Harris would salvage some small shred of pride. He would not stay here until closing time, waiting like some pathetic puppy for her to show or call. As he made his way through the crowd his face felt hot and dry, like someone with a bad fever.  
  
***  
  
"Tell me again what happened?" Trick strode swiftly through the hall, his coat swirling around him.  
  
"Marcellus told me to come and get you." The vampire was almost running to keep up, although this might have been the result of an obvious case of nerves.  
  
Trick rolled his eyes and bit down on the first reply that popped into his head. "Yes, but why did he send for me?"  
  
"Oh, well, one of the perimeter guys heard a noise and when he went to see what it was, there was this crate on the ground outside the fence. So he calls Marcellus, and he checked the box and then he told me to come and get you."  
  
Trick did a slow burn. "You're a fountain of knowledge." He walked the rest of the way in silence, ignoring his servile companion. They left the gleaming, fluorescent-lit hall and entered the cavernous delivery bay. The huge overhead door was still down, but a normal, hinged steel door was open. His guide pointed through the open door. Trick shook his head and went into the night.  
  
The black asphalt rolled smoothly away to the fence, which was quite close to the building at this spot. Only forty yards or so separated him from the three lackeys huddled around a wooden crate. They stared into it, transfixed. Trick crossed the distance with long, rapid strides. "Marcellus," he snapped as he reached the gate. "What's going on?"  
  
Marcellus turned and Trick did not like the look on the other vamp's face one little bit. Marcellus was no great thinker, but he was tough and, like many that lack imagination, he did not understand fear. He gestured at the crate. "I thought you should see this," he said.  
  
Trick scrutinized the container as he approached. It was a large, big enough for a desk or coffin, made of rough wood slats. Splinters were still visible on the raw wood. He waved Marcellus aside and looked in.  
  
"Aaaaaaaah shit," Trick said as he stepped away and threw his head back. He rubbed his forehead and went back to the crate. "Give me a stake," he said.  
  
"W-We don't have any stakes," one of the vampires stammered.  
  
"Then get one or get me a machete or a saw or any damn thing that'll work," Trick barked, his baleful gaze scorching them. They stumbled off toward the building. Trick turned to Marcellus. "I wondered when this would happen," Trick said.  
  
"Sir, I didn't see who sent it," Marcellus said. "But I'm sure--"  
  
"I know who did this." Trick turned to the sound of running feet. One of the vamps held an axe at port arms. He thrust it at Trick.  
  
"Will this do?"  
  
Trick snatched the axe away from him. "It'll have to." He hooked the axe over the edge of the crate and pulled. It tipped over. The other vamps turned away as the contents rolled out. "Sorry, brother," Trick said and swung the axe. He waited for the dust to clear, then bent down and picked up an envelope.  
  
"What is that?" Marcellus asked.  
  
Trick turned the envelope, looking at it from all sides. "I'm not sure of the exact wording, but it's a declaration of war." He tossed the axe to Marcellus, who caught it deftly in one hand. "Be sure and lock up," Trick said as he went back into the building.  
  
***  
  
Angel was almost to the door of the mansion when he heard the footsteps behind him. He turned, keeping his left side toward whoever was behind him, his weight shifted slightly toward his back foot. Another person, male by the silhouette, stopped as well.  
  
"Why do you always think I want to fight?" the figure said. A shaft of moonlight fell on the sidewalk, illuminating his feet and lower legs. He wore very nice shoes. His upper body and face remained in darkness.  
  
"Better safe than sorry," Angel said. He was glad that his body hid his right hand. That way the shaking was invisible. He started to edge back toward the door.  
  
"Ah, yes, caution. A trait I admire." The other man leaned against the retaining wall and appeared to be completely at ease.  
  
"I really don't want to talk to you," Angel said. He wanted to get inside and put a nice thick door between them.  
  
"But I wish to talk to you. There is a rumor that you are thinking of leaving this fair city."  
  
Angel swallowed, fighting to keep his voice steady. "That's right. And soon."  
  
His visitor shook his head. "I am afraid I cannot allow that."  
  
Angel felt a tremor race up his right arm. "Oh?" was all he trusted himself to say.  
  
"You see, I think I may need your help."  
  
Angel's eyes narrowed. "What?"  
  
"I find myself in a bit of a... what do the Americans call it? Oh yes, a pickle. I'm in a bit of a pickle and you're the only one who has all the necessary... qualifications to help me."  
  
"What if I say no?"  
  
"You won't." The visitor put his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "You wouldn't abandon the Slayer when she needed you most, would you?"  
  
***  
  
Giles sensed them before he saw them. He was on the sidewalk, approaching his apartment when the two large figures detached themselves from the shadows and moved to either side of him. Giles realized that his earlier thoughts were wildly optimistic-there was no way out. For a split-second, a fraction of a heartbeat, he was tempted to run, but where would he run? And for what purpose? Better to get this over with than to live on the run, always looking over his shoulder yet without any real mission. No, he would end it here and take what pleasure he could in dealing out some pain of his own.  
  
He lowered himself into a fighting stance. His assailants took two steps away from each other and Giles saw the glimmer of light on the edge of a blade. He, of course, like an idiot, had no weapons with him. The man on his right feinted. Giles half-turned toward him. The assassin on the left bought the feint and stepped forward. Giles blocked the thrust with his left forearm and jabbed the stiffened fingers of his right hand forward. His opponent dropped his chin to protect his larynx. Even as his blow deflected off the man's chin Giles knew that the other one was making his move. Worse, the librarian knew there was nothing he could do. He would never respond in time; all he could hope to do was turn a fatal blow into a wounding one. Something buzzed by his ear and suddenly the man in front of him was gone. Giles looked around, confused, and saw his attacker a few feet away. It took a moment for Giles to realize that someone else was fighting the assassin. The disoriented Watcher saw the flash of the knife, a series of blows and counterattacks rendered surreal by the vaporous blue-white glare of the streetlamps, and then the Watcher's antagonist was down, moaning as he clutched at a broken wrist. Giles' savior turned to him.  
  
"Hey, Mr. Giles," said Stefan Warner. "Thought you'd never come home." The librarian gaped, then whirled at the sound of footsteps behind him. Matti Hollis approached, cradling a long black pistol in her arms. Giles looked at the pistol, then at the second attacker. A long, cylindrical dart protruded from his chest.  
  
"It's just a tranquilizer," Matti said. Giles continued to gawk at the two of them.  
  
"You're probably confused," Warner offered.  
  
"That I am," Giles said, his eyes big. "Who are you?"  
  
"I thought you'd never ask," Warner said. "Mr. Giles, the Chevaliers du Croix are at your service."  
  
Matti Hollis laughed. "You love to say that, don't you?"  
  
***  
  
End of "Blood Brothers." 


End file.
